


And I Won't Let On, That This is all Wrong

by RectifiedPear



Category: Lady and the Tramp (1955)
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, Married Life, Oneshot, Post-Betrayal, Post-Canon, Regret, Rethinking Past Choices, Self-Doubt, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 10:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17896874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RectifiedPear/pseuds/RectifiedPear
Summary: It's funny how hindsight works: too late to make you avoid those big mistakes in life.





	And I Won't Let On, That This is all Wrong

The sunset with an occupied mind and a worried weird amount of guilt for Tramp. He'd been so happy, lost in the moment of getting his son back, that he'd been laughing in Buster's face as things had crumbled around him. As if that kind of thing was an achievement! An accomplishment!

_”That's my boy!”_

Praising his son for a malice he'd once dealt upon people who didn't mean anything to him. Rival dogs and those who came into his area to scrounge around upon scraps. He'd once been doing that to those who threatened Buster. 

Scamp had retold the story four times now, four times was enough for his pride to plummet into his guts and churn around like bad food eaten. Twisting and knotting itself in ways Tramp had never seen coming. His facade of indifferent slid off his face with the fourth round, all three of his daughters chiming in and laughing. Sometimes at Scamp's own follies, sometimes at Buster's 'just desserts'. They laughed their way into bed time, and Lady thanked him again. He didn't have to go through so much just to bring Scamp home. 

He'd smiled his best smile, told her anything for her, but his heart hadn't been in it.

“He meant something more, right?” She asked, ears cocked to the side. “Best friends on the streets?”

“Yeah.”

“And Scamp –“ Her eyes lit with concern, and she left to their master's bedroom. “I'd hate to be trapped like that, left out there for... whatever troubles come by next.” 

“Pidge.”

“You've left before, you could again. The humans won't stop you. I won't pretend to be shocked.” Her tone was solemn, a hint of acceptance.  
The way she did when past dogs flirted with him, when his past was around every corner, and maybe even his present. Some dogs looked like him to her, she'd asked once, but he'd never had an answer. There were Scamps out there prior to hers, he knew as much, but he'd never sniffed them out. 

“I've never been the hero you saw me as. But I'm still a dog who'd always come to your defense.”

She nodded, leaving him to his thoughts. He'd left Buster to injury, or worse, the catcher. An angry mix of rottweiler and doberman so full of hatred towards humans. He'd bite, he'd claw, he'd be put down. If they found him. It had only been hours. Tramp stared upon the doorway, then turned and ran with careful paws. 

Not another dog in the house was up, not even Angel, and he side stepped dishes of food and water to rear up onto the counter, mouth pulling down bags of things like flour to fish behind for where Jim Dear and Darling hit the dog treat bags. He could only fit one and a small bag of dog food, something they'd need more of for sure.

He opened the door with his jaws, head jerking as the metal twisted, then picked back up his dropped bags and left with a click as the door locked itself from the inside.

No real turning back then.

Their scents mixed with the other dogs, ones that were chasing humans into dusk. He adjusted his vision to night and made his path, picking his way carefully along side walk ways and dirt roads. It was dry and void of rain, a small mercy for a trapped mutt. Distantly, Tramp could hear a creak of wood, a wheezing of breathe. 

It was faint, like when he cornered street prey, the sounds of panic built up, then slowly fading, energy coming and going. A single dog in a big trash heap, scrabbling claws into dirt as things got moved and fell upon him more. The place was unstable, a mess. Why had Buster claimed such a mess of a place? He'd guarded trash heaps before, was this one the only one close to where Tramp lived? 

_Did he follow me that far?_

The thought should not have struck him like it did, a stabbing through his chest, a pang of something long lost, of hot breaths cutting through the dark with heated wisps of steam as winter forced them to shiver and shake, until they did not anymore. Pressed close, into a huddle among a pack, and then, the pack breaking down, and once more, just them, two dogs, bolting along the streets, breath like fire in their chests as they stole food and chased tails.

He entered the place, body low, bags crinkling beneath his clenched jaws as he saw the pile was pressed against from the back and the side by another pile, Tramp could see Buster, no longer able to raise his rear end up, as he struggled. He was pinned in place, furrows of dirt in great piles. As if he was digging himself a hole, his breathing was strained. The sting of sweat and acid was there, a dog left to strain for hours and work itself tired. Like horses pulling carriages too long.

He sat the food down before the dog, and jumped onto the pile before he saw the whites of Buster's eyes. His teeth buried into wood, his legs kicked at metal and pushed old clocks free. He worked as Buster beneath the heap, called out. “Whose there?!” Tramp had no breath to answer. “Show yerself!” He pried a rotted beam free, and kicked it to the side, then began to wiggle loose what had once been the top of a piano. “I told ya all to get out!” His voice cracked, he coughed, back pushing up, but not with the strength he had once before.

Tramp didn't even tell him to stay still, he butted heads with an owl clock and punted it aside, rope was yanked and tugged as he jumped off, prying things to the side. Teeth crushed bugs and mites as termites crawled from a chair leg and the chair crumbled into pieces, each grabbed and pulled away. He dug with his paws, heedless of splinters, of the curses and struggling beneath. He worked himself until blood was fresh on his gums and fire in his paws. The feeling of glass beneath them as he swung a frame – a cracked mirror once upon a time, to the side. 

He pushed his shoulders into this, sinew and muscle screaming in protest before he was pushed aside, a beast of muscle and teeth emerging from the remaining pile and turning sight upon him. Tramp jumped backwards, teeth barely clicking from his throat as he landed on all fours upon solid soil.

“You!”

He staggered, blood dripping from his muzzle, paws feeling like they were split open from a hot pavement. “Listen –“

“How dare ya even show yer face around here again –“

“Listen –“

“After all your son did –“

“Buster. Listen to me!” He bore the bloodied fangs, braced himself to bite, and took a stance of hackles raised. “I came back for you! I brought food, I'm here. For you!”

“It's too late, Tramp!”

“Is it?” He snapped, pulling a spear of a splinter from between his toes. “Because I thought it was too late the day I became a house pet!”

The mix's eyes widened, mouth quivering in anger, disgust. His long black claws slit open the dog food bag and huffing, Buster ate it clean, eyes not leaving their narrowed glare upon him. His throat, his collar, him. A house pet. A traitor.

“Ya chose her over everything ya ever were.”

“I thought everything could work out.”

“Didn't!”

Flinching, Tramp recoils, it really didn't, did it? His new life's been a sham of being good, trying to be the dog they want, to be disappointed in a kid who wants to run wild, to favor sheets to cardboard. To take the bathes like a proud warrior, when they were warm water and soap and his old baths were cold lakes and rubbing on dirty blankets or fresh leaves. He's been locking his old life up, and now it stands before him, eyes narrowed, bloodied legs, barely able to breathe as it tears a treat bag in half and feasts.

What can he offer Buster now? To undo history? He cannot. To return him to glory, to be restored pride? Tramp cannot do that, not the way everyone would think. His word will only carry so far. The collar and the knowledge, spread around from canine to canine now, would mark him house pet, even should it fall from his throat. He's owned, a dog with a home, an owner. He cannot give Buster strength or redeem himself. He can't do anything. 

Why did he even come here? 

“You're right. I've changed, I've let all this become me.” He hangs his head. “I let everything we had go, Buster, and you clung on, even when I walked away. You followed me here, something I can only say I'd have done had it been you in my paws.”

Finished eating, the mutt eyes him now, teeth barely hidden behind a half-curled lip. 

“I threw everything for a chance at something that I didn't even understand, and it's hurt you. You laid out here, with no one to help you!” A fate Buster wouldn't have faced had they not parted ways like that. “I isolated you!”

“Your son did.” 

“Who was raised and encouraged by me!”

“A traitor!” 

“...Yes.”

His once-best-friend licks his wounds and rises to a wobbly gait, muscles being stretched and body arching as if his lower half is numb and needs the blood flow returned to it. He's no longer wearing any cockiness in his posture, and neither is Buster. No smile, no grin, no wag of a tail or nub. 

Tramp's shoulders slouch, he feels himself go slack. Surrender. “For what it's worth,” he speaks now, voice lowered, so soft, as he is turning to leave, “I'm sorry I ruined your life.”

He's not stopped as he walks away, he can feel the glare ease off. He can feel Buster's eyes there. Until they can see him no more. Tramp breathes in slowly, lowers his head. He'll be sleeping outside tonight, in the dog house. He won't wake his humans over this. He knows he deserves worse than a single night locked outside with only his thoughts.


End file.
